When you disappeared,
By Margaret
A. Robinson
we called the police.
A young officer —
hair braided, shirt
tight, smelling
of smoke — picked
through your trash,
searched your computer,
found only what we
already knew, what
you wrote of your father's
abuse. We sat in our
formal parlor with your
lover. He wept,
wanted to kill
your Daddy who
made you drive off,
leaving a note
and three cracked
hearts, not saying
a word, sitting all night
on overstuffed chairs.